Chaos Theory
by psychochick1
Summary: Coda to 3.11 Mystery Spot. Sam is precision, Dean is chaos. Somehow together it all balances out.


The toothpaste was messy.

Sam held the crumpled tube in his hands, looking at the crusty white paste smeared around the top, the cap sitting crookedly because of all the gunk in the threads. It was almost empty, the remainder haphazardly squeezed to the top until it was a struggle to get an adequate amount out onto the toothbrush. He wanted to run it under water, wash off the mess, fix it. Or even throw it away and get out a new tube.

He didn't.

Replacing the toothpaste carefully on the bathroom sink, he snapped off the light and walked back towards his bed. In the dark he almost tripped over Dean's duffle, clothes spilling out of it onto the floor. The table was cluttered with the remnants of dinner, hot wing containers and beer bottles shoved in next to the pizza boxes. The books and printouts for the latest case were relegated to the chairs and the floor nearby, papers earmarked or turned sideways in messy stacks, other pages pinned overlapping to the wall. Their journals were stashed on top of the TV, a pen shoved between pages to mark Dean's place.

Sam's fingers itched to go over and straighten it up, throw away the trash and organize the research. To lay everything out precisely in order, neat and clear and controlled. He clenched his fists and made himself sit back down on the bed.

He wasn't used to this, not anymore. For months he had lived alone, hunted alone, _been _alone. The only way he could survive was by focusing on his objective, concentration like a knife's edge, straight and sharp. The messy details of everyday life had to be controlled so as not to distract him from the goal. Military-strict efficiency had kept him going as long as he needed, for longer than he wanted.

But that had never happened. Those months alone, without Dean, that past hell was in a future that didn't exist.

Sam sighed, slumping down and running his hands through his hair, eyes swinging as always back to the other bed. Even the way his brother slept was messy. Dean lay sprawled under the covers, faintly snoring, one hand tucked under his pillow, a foot threatening to fall off the bed. One corner of the sheet was untucked from the mattress and trailing on the floor.

Sam knew he was freaking Dean out. On the drive out of town that Wednesday, Sam had stared at Dean, drinking in the sight of his brother so beautifully alive, for a good two hours before Dean finally snapped out a twitchy, "_What_?" He was too quiet, too intense, always keeping Dean in sight, on the lookout for any possible danger and trying to steer his brother away from it. In return he'd earned sideways glances, increasing attempts to make him laugh and lighten up, indulgences in some of his paranoid behaviors and exasperated demands to stop others.

He couldn't understand, even if Sam wanted to tell him. There were no words to properly express the chaotic tumble of emotions, even if they were the type to actually talk about things. How could he describe the pain and absurdity that came from watching Dean die a hundred different ways? How could he put into words what he felt holding his brother's body in that parking lot, a victim of random chance, a death so pedestrian and meaningless, and the realization that he wouldn't wake up from this nightmare?

Sam knew that Dean really wouldn't understand the months afterwards, of hunting alone. After all, when the shoe was on the other foot, Dean didn't last two days without Sam.

At least Sam now understood the kind of desperation that had driven his brother to summon the crossroads demon. He knew the kind of cold resolve it would take to sacrifice an innocent in exchange for that which mattered most in his world. He understood the fire that had driven his father to give up everything he knew and go hunt down the darkness that had taken his love. And by God he wished he didn't.

Had he really survived without Dean? He'd lived, kept moving, kept breathing, kept hunting. But he was always cold, a chill deeper than his skin. It'd felt like someone had scooped out half his chest, letting the wind whistle through the hollow. Always Sam, never Sammy – because Dean was the only one who called him Sammy. Little brother Sammy didn't exist without Dean.

Even now he wasn't sure. The staggering relief he'd felt at waking up to find Dean brushing his teeth to 80's rock, at holding his brother alive and breathing in his arms, had warmed him inside, but it had also hurt. He had changed, again. What was empty was now filled with shattered pieces, bright and sharp and messy, grinding against each other. Over time maybe the edges would blunt, the pain would dull, but for now it was still too fresh and chaotic.

He looked down at his bed, at the way the sheets were still neat, barely rumpled from his presence. Corners straight and tight with military precision; cold.

Sam crossed to the other bed and lifted the covers, sliding in carefully beside his brother. Dean grunted, one eye opening to regard him with a sleepy look before closing again, breath evening back out. Presence noted, recognized, accepted; another strangely fitting piece in the messy puzzle of their lives.

He laid one hand gently on Dean's back, feeling the steady warmth and breath, the faint thump of a heartbeat under his palm. Even as messy and random as Dean could be, he was also solid strength, the rock that Sam had built his life upon, the one place he could always fall back to and depend upon when he was flying apart. Chaos and stability.

Sammy smiled and let himself drift back to sleep, breath in sync with Dean's. What did the Trickster know about love anyway?


End file.
